


Love Break My Heart

by morkfrompork



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Angst and Feels, Breakup, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, if you don't cry i'm not doing my job right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morkfrompork/pseuds/morkfrompork
Summary: A half-life relationship is disintegrating at the seams. Neither of them is good for the other, but after 14 years together, they don’t know how to be with each other anymore.
Relationships: Axl Rose & Izzy Stradlin, Axl Rose/Izzy Stradlin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	1. Morning

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing in front of the mirror. My eyes have gone foggy from the bright lights bouncing off of every shiny surface in the bathroom and from trying to see a coherent reflection in the shattered glass. I keep meaning to go out and replace it, but every time it leaves my line of sight, I forget about it and the rage Axl was in when he punched it. All the pieces are there; just broken. It serves its purpose, just not well. It’s doing well enough that I’m able to spot the gray hairs.

In the time I’ve stood there (God knows how long it was), I found twelve. Plucked them each out and dropped them into the sink. I’m not even thirty yet… Nowhere near old enough to be going gray from age.

I turn the faucet just enough that a dribble of cool water begins to flow. The stream washes away the hairs and somewhere deep in my soul, I feel like I’m telling a lie. I know exactly why I’m going gray and it wouldn’t be all that much of a guess for anyone close to me either. Not a single one of us would say it out loud. I can almost taste bile at the thought of it. The wave of nausea urges me to cup my hands under the stream of water and toss it into my face. For a moment, I feel some brief sense of relief, but the moment is fleeting.

I dab away the water with a nearby towel and the broken mirror confronts me with proof I can’t just wash away: what used to only be crinkles are now lines of age etched deep in my face.

I must have gasped when I saw them; something caused Axl to turn over in bed. He’d always been a light sleeper, for as long as I’d known him. Likely a survival instinct his mind had created for him. If he was already tossing and turning, getting back into bed would almost definitely wake him up. The last thing I wanted on a day I’d already slept as poorly as I did would be a crabby Axl. Or a bitchy one. Or an angry one. He could be moments away from waking up naturally, but if someone woke him up before he was good and ready, said poor fucker would need eyes on the back of their head for the rest of the day if they wanted to make it through alive.

I shut off the light in the bathroom and paused in the doorway for a moment to consider my options. On the one hand, I could try to get another hour or two of sleep before I’d have to get ready to head out to the studio with Axl and risk waking him up as I got back into bed, or I could just stay up and try to get any kind of work done. Judging by Axl’s second groan and turn in the sheets, it’d be more prudent to take the second option. He may or may not be pissed at me already.

I don’t remember much about what triggered the fight between us last night. My brain had been foggy during most of it and I was riding a mild hangover when I woke up. It’s possible that might have been the beginning of the argument. Axl was no saint when it came to booze either, but he was the best about it and took it upon himself to chastise the rest of the band about their habits.

My suspicions seem to be correct, judging by the apparent tornado that had swept through the living room at the bottom of the stairs. On second thought, ‘tornado’ didn’t do the wreck justice; it was carnage. Almost as bad as the shithole the whole band was sharing when we were first starting out. The only difference was that I know the room had been clean and proper the morning before. A real ‘Better Homes And Gardens’ situation. It looks more like a crime scene as I walk through it for damage assessment.  
Nothing seems to be damaged beyond repair at first glance, just moved or thrown. The only furniture still where I remember it was the couch, which had purposely been the heaviest one available for exactly fights like the one we must have had. Can’t throw something if you can’t lift it.

Bits and pieces of the fight started coming back to me as I step over the strewn chairs, magazines and various other shit that populated the room. I remember the remote for the TV being whipped at the back of my head and a side table being poised for an equal action, but I’d be damned if I could remember why. The only thing that makes me stop is the shattered bottle of Jack by the front door. Bottles had been thrown at each other before. Back in the day, they’d been thrown at almost anything. Perfect for subduing destructive tendencies. The difference between the wrecks I recognized and the one at the door was the lack of any splatter. There’d always be a splatter from the bit of liquid left in the bottle, but there was no sign on the door. Just a little mark in the white paint where the black ink of the label had hit. No splatter meant that Axl hadn’t taken it from me to throw. That impact was my doing.

The pang of regret hits harder than I expect it to. I don’t remember feeling angry at Axl. Or the reason why I would want to hurt him. Axl’s rage burns fast and hot, but once he’s calm, it all goes away. I’m used to the tantrums. I’m not used to coming out of a blur and finding that I wanted to hit him with a heavy bottle that could have either knocked him out or given him need of stitches. And at the front door? He wouldn’t be there unless he was planning to leave. Make-up sex isn’t going to garner me the forgiveness I need for whatever transpired the night before.

I start by cleaning up the glass and fixing up the room as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, it means leaving all the furniture I can’t pick up to move. How Axl can in his rages, I have no idea. Instead of looking like a crack den, I leave the room looking more like the middle of a redecoration project. The second step on my quest of forgiveness is breakfast. Neither of us are too big on it, or really food in general, but coffee and toast are still a staple of the day.

Luckily, the kitchen seems to have been completely disconnected from the chaos. A little messy from a slipshod dinner cleanup, but nothing more heinous than any nuclear family would be facing after meatloaf night. The early morning hour keeps me from wanting to scrub and dry dishes, but I can at least leave them to soak while I prep the coffee.

The old machine looks like it’s on its last legs, but I doubt we’d get rid of it even when it finally decides to stop. It was the one luxury we all chipped in on when we started renting the band house. We mostly stole anything more expensive than a Big Mac but security at the appliance store were on us like hawks if we dared to step into the store. We could have probably survived without food and most of our vices, but taking coffee away from a house full of drunks was just asking for murder. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was still kicking after the horrendous overuse we put it through. A memory of when the five of us weren’t too fucked up to work together.

I exhale softly when the thought passes through. Stevie may have been a pain in our collective asses, but he was our pain in the ass. Part of the guys. And he threw it all away over a vice. If one of the five of us could leave, then who was next?

The little light on the coffee maker begins to blink. There used to be a shrill beep that went with it, but the speaker was promptly removed when five angry drunks with five angry hangovers unanimously decided that there was no place in the house for that kind of bullshit.

I’m pouring the first cup when quiet shuffling from behind me results in two arms around my waist.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” I murmur, setting the pot back down. I can feel Axl shake his head between my shoulderblades.

“I was up anyway. Thanks for making the coffee and cleaning up.” His voice is still thick with sleep, making it deep enough that I can hardly hear him.

“Want something to eat? I was feeling toast.” He considers for a few moments and I’m almost worried he fell asleep against me. He eventually nods, still holding onto me gently.

“Butter, unless you wanna open that jam from your mom.” I turn around in his grasp and place a kiss to the top of his head. He’s feeling the same way I am- remorseful for an event neither of us remember clearly, but knowing that reparations must be made. It’s why he’s being so physically affectionate.

“Anything for you, Fireball.” He takes my cue to sit down at our little table in the middle of the kitchen. It’s big enough for the two of us and maybe one more if we squished elbows, not really more than a card table, but perfect for two introverts who like proximity.

When he sits down, I take my opportunity for looking him over for damages. His hair is mussed, but likely from post-sex instead of a bottle hitting it, so I’m not too worried. His collarbone is spotted with little bruises, but the placement and shape lead me to believe they’re nothing more than love bites. No scrapes or cuts along his arms. He doesn’t look like he’s facing anything worse than insomnia. I can’t blame him; the new album is set to be released within the next couple of months, and his vision for it is huge. Two full albums, released on the same day, and we’ve only got one album’s worth of songs written for them. It’s brilliant, but I’m as worried as he is about completion.

The toast pops up and is smeared with my mom’s spiced peach jam. She sends us a few jars each summer as a care package that I used to protest about, but learned to accept. Childhood comfort foods are something that only last for so long.

I set Axl’s plate in front of him with his coffee. We both like it strong, but he somehow takes it black without anything added. As far as he knows, mine is the same. He’s still looking a little tired and distracted, but not unhappy.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask, nibbling on a corner of toast.

“Just the albums. It’s the third album curse,” he explains, only now noticing his breakfast.

“Explain?”

“Any band’s third album is always the worst. They use up all the songs they’ve written on the first two and by the third, they have nothing to say. _Zeppelin 3_? _Dressed To Kill_? We’re having the same problem, but we’re doing two at once.”

I can feel the floor shaking between us. He’s bouncing his knee like he always does when he has nervous energy. I lean across the table and take his free hand in mine. It’s softer; no calluses common to a guitarist.

“You’re forgetting _Toys In The Attic, London Calling, Electric Ladyland_ … The last two also being double albums. Dunno about you, but those guys turned out okay.” Axl manages a small smile. It’s hard to believe that the same face that can look so sweet and charming is the same one who tried to throw a table at me less than ten hours ago. “Ours are gonna kick so much ass.” As fast as the smile came, it descended into a scowl.

“It would if I wasn’t the only one pulling his fucking weight.” I sighed quietly, only letting the air escape through my nose. An out-loud sigh would only bring on another fight. This wasn’t Axl’s fault, or even my fault. He simply stressed out about details more than the rest of us and was definitely more vocal about it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault...


	2. Evening

I can remember back to the first days we spent in the studios. Cutting demos, the silence punctuated by growling stomachs. We were hungry literally and figuratively. Daily scrapings of cash were what we ate from and some days, sleep was all we could afford for dinner. Working on the first album was much of the same, but not quite as desperate. We had a bit of an advance. Something we could eat off of, but nothing that was keeping us in the lap of luxury. We still all shared a shitty house with a carpet full of burn holes and not a single piece of furniture that didn’t boast an array of stains, dents or scrapes. But we weren’t starving for anything except success.

It’s different now. You didn’t have to look beyond the people occupying the studio to know the energy felt different. Steven was gone, to begin with. He’d struggled along with the rest of us, and now he was gone because he found something that meant more to him than we did. Success got to his mind and gave him the delusions of invincibility I had seen so many of my heroes succumb to. My mind drifted to him sometimes when nothing else was occupying it. Call it a happy place, if you will. It’s simply a corner of my mind I can go to when the reality around me doesn’t live up to my expectations of it.

The other difference is everyone’s attitudes about the albums-in-process. Our collective passions were what created the first, but this? The passion here lay in something besides music. Slash is doped up, hiding behind his curtain as if he thinks we can’t tell. He used to share this passion with Steven and me, but times are different now. Duff’s baby is in the bottle. How his liver hasn’t exploded yet is beyond me. His passion lies somewhere deep within his endless bottles, in drinking them down like he’s trying to find it. Axl? His passion lies in control, in perfection. In a way, it always has, but it’s begun to overpower him and, in turn, the rest of us. His demand for perfection drives everyone to their respective new passions as well. As for myself, I’m no saint. I’ve drank my fair share and I took part in every drug I could get my hands on. But they weren’t my passions. The struggles I went through to kick all of them were in the honour of the one thing who held control over me: the bitchy redhead who’s barking orders at everyone in the studio.  
I’m trying to comply with what he’s saying and follow directives. Axl’s in no mood to hear anyone’s ideas but his own. Neither Duff nor Slash seem eager to offer any. Matt and Dizzy look more inclined to lick peanut butter off his ass than to offer constructive criticism. It’s no one’s fault the day is going this way; simply the cycle that’s been constructed during these albums. A single mistake in the morning leads to an outburst, which leads to stress, more mistakes, more anger and fear which leads to shit being taken secretly to cope, then playing gets sloppier, and eventually, something will break. It’s as certain as any law of motion.

I’m not even sure who messed up when Axl pauses us again. I started tuning him out after we did a perfect run-through and he still found problems. As much as I love him, sometimes a tune-out is the only way to cope. It’s the only way I can keep loving him. He’s in the control room, arguing with our producer. I can’t hear his exact words through the soundproofed glass, but I can see his lips moving and his body language isn’t screaming “I’m in a fantastic mood; please approach.”

It takes five or so minutes for our producer to eventually lean into his mic to be heard in the recording booth.

“Iz, Axl thinks you might be flat.”

I purse my lips and make a show of checking my tuning quickly. I’m not flat. Axl knows I know I’m not flat. He’s lashing out because _something_ isn’t living up to his grand vision and he isn’t sure what it is. I’d have heard if someone was flat. He would have too, without having gone through an entire shouting match with the producer to wreck his voice.  
Satisfied with my efforts, Axl returns to the booth and we start another take. They’re numbered, for some reason, but we’ve done so many, I don’t know why anyone would bother to keep track. It’s the same for every song. Every song on these twin albums that we thought would be a great idea. No one had anticipated just how much of a pain they would grow to be. A single album takes months. We’ve been at both of them for over a year. Almost a year and a half, by my count. A year and half of my time spent being yelled at by a man who just wishes he could yell at the universe, but instead chooses to whittle it down to who he used to consider his universe.

I’m playing again, but I don’t remember beginning. Everyone is playing, but no one looks like they’re actually here. Mentally, anyway. We’re all in our respective happy places. Axl stops us again and the room heaves a collective mental sigh. The take was as perfect as he’s going to get. For tonight, anyway. Time passes in a different way in the studio. The lack of windows and clocks ensure it. Once the exhaustion sets in, minutes seem like hours, seem like seconds. I know I ate breakfast with Axl this morning, but nothing since. I can easily bet that it’s beyond lunch time.

Once Axl’s back is turned in the control room, I pull my neck strap over my head and place the guitar on one of the stands in the corner, unplugging it in the process. The minute details of imperfection have Axl swamped sufficiently that he doesn’t notice when I leave the recording booth. Nor does he notice that I’ve left the studio.

It’s late evening when I walk outside. Full moon on the rise and everything. For the first time today, my movements aren’t planned. Sure, I’ll eventually have to return to the studio and face Axl’s wrath, but for a few moments, I’m free. It’s yet crowded enough that Axl would be a fool to walk in the streets. Moments like these are when I respect Kiss and everyone who had the same idea as them: when you become famous, your face is no longer your own. It belongs to the public to use as they please. So they created new faces to give to the public and keep the ones they were born with for themselves. Staying out of the spotlight gives me a variation of the same luxury. A fan could identify me if they tried, but a casual viewer never could like how they would be able to with Axl. Being the frontman, everyone knows his face. He’d get swamped the instant he set foot outside the studio. I’m walking with my hands shoved into my jean pockets to keep them a little warmer. It might be Californian May, but it’s still nightfall and growing colder. Not enough that I’m wishing I had something warmer on, but enough that it’s starting to grow unpleasant. 

The first time I remember my intentions for leaving the studio is when I reach a cheap diner a few blocks away. The kind that looks like it employs people who spit in your food if you order anything more complicated than a burger and a soda. In short, the perfect place for a hiding musician.

The diner is empty save for a couple of skeevy patrons dotting the bar stools and other booths. A pretty sorry dinner rush, but the food looks edible enough to spend money on. Playing safely gets me a coke and a cheeseburger served in a plastic basket, somehow both looking like the most beautiful things I’d seen all day. Grease is seeping through the parchment paper lining the basket and the coke is a little flat, but it’s quiet. No strings cutting into my fingers while I played the same two minutes of a song over and over, no screaming, no more little bubble of resentment that was building up deep within me. Just soft conversations between patrons. For the first time in almost a year and a half, it’s quiet enough that I can let myself think.

A little scrap of paper’s been metaphorically burning a hole in my pocket since we began writing for the album, but I never knew what to add to it. My original idea was to write a love song for Axl, but the frustration of having nothing to say only got me more depressed. I hadn’t even tried to put anything down since I got clean.

I uncap a pen and begin to write. Nothing in particular, just a few words that could maybe be something some day. I eventually finish the cheeseburger and start dedicating my brain power to scribbling while I sip on my flat coke. The chorus is starting to come together and the verses are well on their way when someone slides into my booth across from me. I know without looking up. A pair of aviators join my field of vision of the table, but I’m not giving Axl the satisfaction of acknowledging him yet. It’s what he wants; to have the proof that I know I wronged him. So I keep at the task at hand. If he’s able to read my handwriting upside-down, he’s not saying so. Just sitting as uncaring as I am. As soon as I leave the diner, shit is going to fly. If I’m lucky, my nose will stay intact, but I’ve never been known to be that lucky before. All I do know is that the longer I sit here, the worse I’m going to have it. It’s the little quirks like that that you pick up on after 14 years with someone.

The final verse closes up under my hand as I awkwardly slurp up the last few drops of coke hidden under semi-melted ice cubes. I fold up the scrap of paper and put it back into my pocket as I get up, leaving most of my spare change on the table as a tip. I still haven’t looked Axl in the eye, but I can tell he’s been staring me down ever since he entered. When I push open the door to exit, he follows, no more than an arm’s reach away.

The first time he touches me is when we pass an alley and he grabs my by the collar to pull me in. The jolt is strong enough to startle me, but not strong enough that it hurts. He shoves me so my back is against the grimey alley wall before socking me across the jaw.

“You… Izzy, you…” He looks like he wants to saw something else, but he punches me again instead.

“…you backstabbing son of a bitch!” He figures out what he wants to saw as he swings again, but I’m ready for him this time. Ready enough that I block his arm with mine.

“Cool it, Fireball.”

“Cool it?” He chuckles like he’s in a strange sort of delirium. “You fucking throw me under the bus to deal with those fucking dipshits and you tell me to cool it?”

“I didn’t throw you under any bus you weren’t already swan-diving towards,” I counter, keeping a firm grasp on his wrist. I’ve both thrown and received my share of punches, but it doesn’t mean I’m fixing to get any more. Especially from Axl.

“You’re as bad as they are! Are you all fucking trying to mess up and delay the albums?” He’s struggling against my grasp enough that I let go. Right now, he’s not planning on hitting me anymore. Just yell a little bit and maybe pace some before the steam will be all out. We’ll kiss and we’ll go home together and we’ll call it love when deep down, we know it’s anything but.


	3. Dusk

I’m running. It’s a distant memory from long ago, but I can feel the uneven gravel under my sneakers. Every little pebble getting stuck in the grooves of the sole. My lungs are aching for air, but I’m not slowing down. I can’t afford to slow down. The tree shows itself over the horizon and I exhale hard in relief. The tree is safety presenting itself to us, allowing us reprise.

I don’t slow down until I grab hold of the tree, the bark scraping the skin on my hand and wrist. Only then do my feet stop moving. Axl arrives moments after I do, tagging into pause in much the same way, but not drawing blood from his palm like I did.

His face is much the same as it is now. A jawline that could cut glass and lips appearing just as soft. His hair is a little shorter and not quite as straight, but he’s already well on his way to having it be too long for most of Indiana. The one thing that’s never changed are his eyes. Even as he’s gasping for air with his hands on his knees, he looks up at me and his eyes are the same. They remind me of the day I first noticed them: a stormy day with a grey sky shadowing over green fields. We’d snuck out of class to smoke under the bleachers of the football field and got caught in the storm. We stayed mostly dry there and got the best view of the downpour. Axl had said something that made me look into his eyes and notice them for the first time. His words exactly are lost to me.

Once Axl catches his breath, he straightens up and grins.

“So you beat me here; big whoop.”

“I don’t think that’s what the deal was,” I counter, crossing my arms as I lean against the tree.

“What deal? I don’t remember a deal.” He’s trying to look innocent and for a moment, it almost works on me. But no fourteen-year-old buys crap that obvious.

“C’mon, Bill. You gotta do it. I beat you fair and square.”

Axl sighs before taking a few steps back from me to give himself space. To his credit, he isn’t one to back down from a bet, no matter how stupid it was. And this was the epitome of stupid.

“Friday night and the lights are low, looking out for a place to go…” His voice sounds ridiculous when mentally compared to the original vocals of _Dancing Queen_ , but his attitude towards it is perfect. With the front of his hair fluffed out to the sides, he looks just like a ginger version of Agnetha Fältskog.

I’m cracking up during the entire performance. Partly because of watching my best friend make a fool of himself to no one but me, but also because he’s putting so much effort into it. I didn’t even know he knew all the words to _Dancing Queen_ , but life surprises you daily. The chorus is the moment he truly belts out into the open field. It’s the moment when I watch all of the cares leave his body. All the stress. Everything he has to suffer through at his house is forgotten and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was enjoying himself.

I’m almost sad to hear the song end, but it does. And with an almost regal bow that I’m sure caused Axl to brush the grass underneath with his elbow. Just to play along, I’m applauding. I’m sure he thinks it’s to make fun of him, which is what the whole ordeal was supposed to be about in the first place, but there’s a hint of sincerity in there that I hope he picks up on.

“Thank you, thank you, all,” he declares, speaking to an imaginary audience. “We’ve been ABBA and now we’re going to shut the fuck up so no one has to hear that goddamn song ever again.”

“Bold words coming from someone who knows every line.” I smirk, sitting down with my back against the tree.

“ _Everyone_ knows every line. When’s the last day you haven’t heard that fucking noise on the radio?” He gripes, sitting down across from me.

“Fair enough. Wish they’d play more of the good stuff. Like that new Aerosmith album.”

Axl covers his ears in a hurry.

“Don’t say anything about it! I’ve been saving my allowance for three weeks to get it, so don’t spoil it!” I chuckle and reach over to pull his hands away from his ears.

“I won’t say anything, but why don’t you just come to my place to listen to it?”

“I can’t listen to anything for the first time with someone else in the room. It ruins the experience.”

“That seems stupid.”

“It’s not stupid! It’s like… It’s like the movies, y’know?” I raise my eyebrow at him. He’s fumbling for an explanation hard enough that he looks like he might fall over. “Like, when you go to the movies, sometimes you can go with someone if you don’t really care about it, because half your attention is watching how the other person reacts the entire time and it doesn’t matter. But if you go alone, you can really pay attention to the details.”

“Guess that makes sense. You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

“You gotta. What’s the point in enjoying something unless it’s the best experience it can be?”

Axl’s eyes have lit up while he’s talking. If I’m being honest, my mind is in two places as I listen: half focused on what he’s saying and half watching him say it. Axl doesn’t talk with his hands too much like how some people do when they get passionate. He talks with his eyes. You can only see it if you’re truly looking for it. It might be the reason why none of the adults ever thought he cared about anything. But he truly does.

“Is being alone all you need to enjoy an album?” I eventually ask, on the realisation that I haven’t said anything in a few moments.

“Usually. Sometimes I smoke a little, but that’s only for, like, Pink Floyd or something. Speaking of which…” He gives me a look and I know he knows I know what he’s talking about. It’s still fun to dick around with him anyway.

“Speaking of what?”

“C’mon, Jeff…”

“You must have me confused with some kind of scoundrel,” I smirk, pulling my cap down over my eyes.

“I have you confused with no one, you pothead dipshit,” Axl laughs, flicking my cap off.

“Well, since you were so mean to me, I’m just going to smoke it all, then.”

“I’ll frisk you over it.” He says it like a threat, but my heart still skips a beat when he says it.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

I hadn’t noticed we were in a Mexican standoff until we were already knee-deep. He was on his knees, staring me down without a hint of joking in his expression. I was doing my best to keep the same stoicism on my face, but something in the air was making me want to giggle. It was probably only a minute or so before I cracked and reached into my shirt pocket to toss the little baggie of joints at him.

“Yeah, I’m the pothead,” I snickered as I watched him light one up eagerly.

“You’re baked more than a Dunkin Donuts,” he countered, exhaling happily.

“No shit, idiot. Donuts are fried.”

“Just like your brain from how much you smoke.”

The back-and-forth continues and only grows sillier as we smoke. We both consider ourselves experts on pot. Real hot shit because we know how to do it without coughing too much. Typical young teenager dumbassery.

The evening is growing later and our conversation is calmer. Less silly and more dreamy. Axl is no longer sitting across from me, but beside me with his back to the tree as well to make passing the joint back and forth easier. Our shoulders are brushing and sometimes hands as well. If I weren’t a little high, I never would have thought anything of it, but my mind keeps getting drawn back to every detail about the kid sitting beside me. Details like how he always smells like old books on Monday morning because he spent all of the day before at church. How his clothes never quite fit him right because they’re either from when he was a kid, or he’s lost weight. How soft his hair feels when a light breeze blows a few strands into my face.

“When we get out of here, we’re going to be huge,” he murmurs, finally accepting that we’ve smoked the joint down to the nub and puts it out.

“I mean, yeah, obviously. Who wouldn’t want to listen to you, Miss Disco Queen?” I tease. He punches me lightly in the arm.

“I’m serious. We could totally make it. We’ve got the stuff.”

“And when have you ever heard of someone from Indiana really making it big?”

“No one from Indiana, exactly, but tons of hick kids make it big. Like, Liverpool is the hick town of England, I think.”

“You serious?”

“I mean, probably. They sound like hick English guys when they talk.”

“And Buddy Holly was from a hick Texas town.”

“Jeff, he died when he was 23. Not the greatest role model.”

“He was 22, but think of it: that was almost 20 years ago and people still like him.”

“What’s your point?”

I shrug and cross my fingers behind my head to cushion it from the tree. “Dunno anymore. Guess that anyone can make it with the right stuff.”

Axl seems to agree with me because he doesn’t say anything else.

The moment is one that sticks with me long afterwards. In the 14 years since we’ve been 14, I still remember every detail. My back is aching against the rough back poking through my shirt and I know Axl’s back is hurting from the beating he’d gotten a few days ago. The bruises were finally turning away from the nasty black and blue, but now they were yellow, which was almost worse. He’s leaning on me a little bit. Not in a way that implied anything, just in a way that expressed his exhaustion from the evening. The sun is setting in front of us and I almost wish I had brought my sunglasses. I usually never go anywhere without them, but the race from my house to the tree was something I couldn’t risk losing them on. In a way, I’m glad. It means nothing is blocking the colours. The sky is the same orange as Axl’s hair. The setting sun over the horizon feels the same way the colour appears; warm, safe. I’m feeling the gold-laced orange on my face and against my fingers as I lower my hands from behind my head and tentatively wrap one around Axl’s shoulders. He doesn’t move beyond adjusting to allow me to place my arm comfortably and I take it to mean he’s okay with the change. Just in case I took his body language wrong, I turn to him to check and my body freezes. The glow of the dusk is still radiating from him, making his hair glow. It feels like I’m holding a small ball of fire under my arm. He turns to look up at me and I feel I should turn away, but I can’t bring myself to. The sight is too spectacular to have end.

Axl ends it for me.

Before I can apologise for my staring, his lips are on mine. They’re just as soft as I always guessed they were. Plush and yielding and unwilling to let me back away. He tastes like the weed we just smoked with a hint of the burgers my mom made for us only a few hours ago. He tastes like Axl. Feels like Axl. I could make all the comparisons I wanted to, but at the end of the day, he was more than the sum of the parts I love about him. He’s Axl. My Axl.

He pulls away hardly an inch and I find myself as breathless as I was after sprinting a mile. Breathing isn’t as important as it once was. Nothing seems to be. Everything that’s important to me is already here.

“I hope that was okay…” He whispers, the lasting sunlight illuminating the blush spotting his cheeks. “I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”

“You’re not the only one,” I respond, cupping his face in my free hand. I pull him close and kiss him again, dissipating all the fear I know he held during the first.

I go back to this memory often. Reminding myself of the love we held for each other once upon a time. I’m back in it again tonight as I sit alone at the kitchen table, holding an ice pack to my face to ease the swelling after my Fireball successfully got me with a lamp.


	4. Dawn

We finished recording the albums a few days ago. All that remains is the little nitty-gritty details that Axl usually takes care of. We’ll say it’s a band effort, but the ideas that get put into play are his and the hired professionals he works with. Things like album art, track listings and the little bits of writing that’ll be included. All the details will be as much of a surprise to me as they will be to whoever buys it. I hope to Christ no one books me for an interview to ask about any of them. I won’t have answers. Luckily, with Axl around, that risk runs low.

I’m driving the both of us back to the house from a photoshoot a few miles north of the city. The endless drive for perfection was just as present there as during recording, meaning it’s nearly dawn already. The shoot was only supposed to be a few hours. Nothing more strenuous than having to sit in the makeup chair for a few minutes and then sit on an amp or something with my guitar while they told me to look at a spot on the floor in the distance. Something about wanting to play up my aloof personality, whatever the fuck that means. If I had driven up alone, I could have been home as soon as the group photos and my solo photos were done. But I decided to be a caring dumbass and drive Axl up as well. Which meant he had to sit in on everyone’s solo photos and insist on more takes than Stanley Kubrick. 

I haven’t said anything during the drive yet, but I’ve been thinking the entire time. The little box in my jacket pocket feels like it’s been getting heavier the entire time. At some point this evening, I intended to give it to Axl, but evening became morning without me noticing and now we’re alone on a gloomy highway before the rest of the world has woken up. One would think it would be the perfect time to give him the box, and it would be, if he was quiet as well. With his mind on it the entire time, Axl hasn’t stopped talking since we left the studio. 

He’s talking about the shoot, kicking himself over how he allowed it to end, with photos different than the ones he was envisioning. At some point, he starts talking about the layout he’s got in mind. How to make the albums distinct, yet clearly meant to be together. I wish I can say I’m listening. After the previous few hours, all I want to do is be in my bed, asleep, and I’m resenting him for keeping me from it. 

He suddenly goes quiet and it takes me a moment to realise he’s asked me a question. And another moment to realise that I haven’t been paying attention to a word he’s said. I’m back in third grade and faced with a math problem I don’t know the answer to. So I take the same escape route.

“Sorry, what?”

Axl sighs and looks out of the passenger side window, leaning back with his foot on the dash.

“Forget it. I’m wasting my fucking breath here.”

“I just got distracted. What did you say?”

“What do you care? You’ve resented every part of making this album.”

“Can you blame me, control freak?” The words slip out from under my breath. I hadn’t actually meant to say them, but if they came out, it means I did think them. I can feel Axl’s eyes boring into the side of my skull and my knuckles turn white from my tightening grip on the wheel.

“Sorry, one more time in my good ear?” Axl asks, venom dripping from every syllable. “You know, the one you didn’t blow out with your shitty playing?”

I have to remind myself that this isn’t the time to pick a fight. Too many people end up dead because of a fight behind the wheel that ends up with the car wrapped around a tree. I can hardly feel my fingers anymore, I’m gripping the wheel so hard. 

“Fuck off.” It’s all I can whisper to keep my cool. We’ll be back at the house soon and we can punch each others’ lights out there. 

“That’s what I thought, you little bitch,” Axl sneers, turning back towards the window. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“As control freak, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

I pull over to the side of the road and park, turning off the engine and leaving us in dead silence. It’s too early for birds to be awake yet and too late in the evening for any of the nocturnal animals to still be making noise. We’re completely alone.

“Get out.” I’ve got one hand in my pocket containing the box and the other in my pocket with my old handgun. A leftover from our struggling dealer days that my paranoia still won’t let me leave behind whenever I go anywhere. I haven’t shot it in years. Axl, to his credit, does as he’s told. I wait until I hear the passenger door slam before I get out as well. He’s leaning onto the hood, fingers clasped together as he stares me down.

“There’s something I don’t get about you,” he says, eyes blazing with a hatred I haven’t seen in over a decade. 

“And what’s that?”

“Why you paint yourself as the victim every goddamn day.” 

“Because I’m living with a bipolar lunatic who would rather destroy everything than not get his way.”

“And that’s so much harder than living with a junkie loser who hasn’t cared about anything since he made it big, let alone cared about me.” This is new. Of all the things I expected him to pick a fight over, it wasn’t this. 

“What the fuck makes you say that?”

Axl straightens up as he shrugs, not an ounce of kidding in his expression. He starts walking towards me and instinct has me clutch the gun in my pocket.

“Dunno. Maybe it’s because ever since you first shot up, I’ve been the one picking up the slack. I made sure you didn’t starve because you were too fucked up to eat for weeks. I kept this band going while the rest of you enjoyed what my work got you. I watched you try to kill yourself slowly for years, you junkie fuck!” He’s close enough to grab me by the jacket and pull me towards him. “And never once did you show me the same love back.”

My laughter is hollow as I shove away his hands. “Every bruise you gave me… that was love to you?” It’s my turn to advance on him with what a professional would probably call hysteria. I call it ‘fucking done’. “The beatings? Were they done in love too? Almost breaking my jaw with a lamp? Was that love? Get off your high fucking horse.”

He’s stunned silent and I get a flash of satisfaction. But only a flash; the silence doesn’t last longer than that.

“Don’t act like you’re a saint here. You’re not the only one who gets stuff thrown at him. You just have shit aim when you’re drunk.” 

“Or maybe I’m trying to miss because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t want to hurt me? Someone alert the presses, because this is breaking fucking news!” Our voices are getting louder and they’re starting to echo, but I’m way too pissed off to care. 

“Maybe I love you too, ever think of that?”

“And your version of love is so much better than mine.” Axl’s face softens a moment and he starts doing a petulant chick voice. It’s jarring, to say the least. “Ooh, I’m Izzy Stradlin, flawless prince of perfection, and I purposely miss throwing furniture at my boyfriend because I love him.” The switch back throws me off just as much. “Grow the fuck up, Izzy.” 

Before I know it, the gun in my pocket is out and it’s being aimed at Axl. The other hand still in my pocket is shaking, but the one out is steady as stone. I can almost hear our hearts beating in the dead silence. Axl has his hands up in quiet surrender. He’s about to say something before I cut him off.

“Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t say anything for a second. Just stay fucking quiet,” I murmur, taking a step towards him. He doesn’t move a muscle. 

“Fourteen years ago, I thought I loved you. I was so certain after our first kiss, that I never doubted it for a second. Even when you were hitting me, I was sure I loved you. Axl, I was so fucking sure for so long that I loved you that I never questioned that what we have isn’t love. It’s mutual tolerance at best. Hatred at the worst. Axl, I hate you. I hate you so much that my heart hurts right now thinking about it.”

I didn’t realise that my eyes were getting moist until the tear reached my neck. It let me realise that Axl was crying as well. The greens in his eyes were gone, leaving behind nothing except stormy grey with watery red surrounding them. He’s shaking hard. Be it with fear or anger, I don’t know, and I sure as fuck don’t care. There was a time in my life when I would have softened and felt like shit at causing him to look like that, but right now, I don’t care. I can’t imagine caring. 

I pull my other hand out of my pocket and Axl flinches. “My final contribution,” I murmur, holding the box out to him. He takes it and pulls out the tape inside. My chickenscratch handwriting labels it with the title. I retrace a little and correct myself. “My final, imperfect, contribution. Do with it what you will.”

“What do you mean final?” He finally asks, turning the tape over in his hands.

“This is my resignation. I’m quitting. I’m done with you and with this band.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’ll keep doing what I love, and I’m going to do it without your fucking nagging in my ear every goddamn day of my life.” I chuckle lowly, my laughter breathy and wild. “I wasted half my fucking life on you. Half of it, you son of a bitch. I’m never getting it back, thanks to you.”

Axl takes a step towards me and I straighten my arm, aiming my gun directly between his eyes. 

“Stay back. Stay back or I swear to God, I will shoot you.”

“So fucking do it.” 

“Yeah, cause you’d let yourself die with a bullet wound on that pretty face of yours.” 

“So we’ve decided you won’t shoot me in the face. What are you going to do?”

“Walk home. Not to our house. Keep whatever you want that’s there. I don’t care about any of it.” 

Axl nods solemnly and looks back down at the tape in his hands. “You do that.” 

I lower my gun and toss him the keys as I begin to walk away.

“Izzy, one more thing.”

I turn around and pause for a moment. I don’t know why I did it when I knew that I wasn’t going to be going back to him. 

“I never want to see you again. I never want to hear from you again. On my life, I would rather slit my own throat than hear your name ever again.” 

“The feeling is mutual.”


End file.
